A Meeting of Minds
by House Calls
Summary: What would happen if two of the most observant people were to cross paths? The Mentalist/House crossover. Now 100% complete and re-posted due to author error !
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **A Meeting of Minds

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _The Mentalist_ or _House_ or anything associated with them. This story idea, however, is mine.

**Note: **Takes place during the pilot episode of _The Mentalist_.

_mhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmh_

The one thing to be thankful for in all this was he had booked an early flight. Even with the delay, he should still be able to meet up with Lisbon and the others before they got too far into the investigation. The investigation Cho had been kind enough to tell him about, that is. But things such as suspensions and office politics were inconsequential at the moment. They were also better pondered with a cup of tea. Squaring his shoulders and straightening his vest, Patrick Jane used his carry-on bag to help him gently maneuver through the small crowd of disgruntled travelers, his suit jacket folded neatly over his arm.

Scanning for a nearby coffee shop of some sort, Jane had just zeroed in on a brightly-colored coffee kiosk when he stumbled over something, nearly dropping his bag and jacket. He recovered with a couple of hops, casting a grin at the couple who were looking disapprovingly at something behind him. Righting himself completely Jane followed their respective gazes, his eyes falling on the tall and somewhat rumpled man stretched out at a small table on what was meant to be a patio (but they were indoors – silly, really) by a diner-themed restaurant. An abandoned Reuben and lukewarm coffee were in front of the man, a backpack and wooden cane at his feet.

Jane said nothing, just lifting his hand in a small wave with an equally small grin before deciding his present location would make a better stop as he waited for updates on his flight. Seeing a "Please wait to be seated" sign (again, odd for a diner) he instead made his way to an empty table for two, setting down his things as a waitress, in what was becoming the customary serving outfit of all black, stopped by his table.

"Sir --"

"Yes, hello," he said, looking up at her with a full smile. "I'd like a cup of tea, please, with a splash of milk added to the cup first – before the tea is steeped – and a ham sandwich. What brand of mustard do you use here?" Jane clasped his hands together on the tabletop, his eyes never leaving her face as the woman groped briefly for something to say, gave up, and then muttered about checking on the mustard before turning on her heel to go. She was stopped by the man who had tripped Jane speaking up.

"Thanks for the lack of service. I will not be asking for a piece of overpriced pie." The waitress glared at each of them in turn before resuming her trip to the back.

"She's going to take her break now," Jane said, not looking at the other man.

"Why? Because we upset her?" Jane heard the man spin his coffee cup a few times followed by the sound of a bottle of pills being pulled out of a coat pocket.

"No, because she looked at the clock over the lunch counter when I sat down and sighed before coming here. But now," Jane looked over at the stranger, "she has justified to her manager the need for an earlier break by our seemingly boorish behavior."

"Ah, yes, of course." Popping off the bottle cap with a flick of his thumb, the man shook out two oblong white pills which he promptly threw back and swallowed dry.

Interesting.

Jane ducked his head down, his gaze lazily taking in the restaurant's other patrons, the travelers hurrying by them, the small girl skipping alongside her mother with a bright red balloon bobbing up and down above her head. He was nonplussed when his musings were interrupted by another waitress plunking down a cup, a bowl of creamers, and a small stainless steel teapot with a tea bag nestled beside it on his table. Heh. Jane politely gave his thanks before busying himself with preparing his tea.

_mhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmh_

Greg House leaned back in his seat, pushing his half-eaten Reuben away from him. Absently rubbing his right thigh, he watched the people streaming past him. It really was time to push for a 'no conference' clause in his contract. Such things were really more Foreman's thing anyway – all the schmoozing and pointless chitchat. Never mind the layovers it took to get to the destination. Somehow he ended up stuck in Sacramento on his way to Palm Springs. He blamed Cuddy's latest penny-pinching spree for landing him on a second-rate airline. Looking up at the ceiling he debated ditching the whole stupid conference (along with the lame diner-themed restaurant he was killing time at). He stretched out his legs thinking California was much better suited for a cold beer, a sandy beach and a certain dean of medicine wearing – something, but some klutz had tripped over his outstretched legs and derailed what could have been a great fantasy.

House pantomimed someone throwing back a few too many drinks for the benefit of the couple who thought he had tripped the guy on purpose. He made no move to pull his legs in. The couple passed by with matching glares of disapproval. The man he had tripped looked back at him, smiled, and waved before plopping himself down at a nearby table. He looked like the kind of guy Cameron would go for, actually, with his suit and blond hair. He was a less floppy version of Chase. Except for the beat-up shoes. A waitress hurried over to mini-Chase's table, ready to scold him for ignoring the prominent "Please wait to be seated" sign, but the man jumped right into his order with a charming smile. The waitress wasn't impressed and the man didn't seem to mind in the least.

House smiled before letting the woman know he wouldn't have ordered an overpriced piece of pie even if she had asked.

"She's going to take her break now," mini-Chase said, fiddling briefly with the salt shaker.

"Why?" House rolled his eyes. "Because we upset her?" He turned his half-full coffee cup around a few times before deciding he really did need a couple of Vicodin. He fished around for the bottle in his coat pocket as the man continued speaking.

"No, because she looked at the clock over the lunch counter when I sat down and sighed before coming here. But now she has justified to her manager the need for an earlier break by our seemingly boorish behavior."

"Ah yes, of course," House replied. The man watched as he then dry-swallowed a couple of pills, seeming to catalog the action before turning his attention to the people streaming past them. Something between wistfulness and grief flashed across his face when a young girl went by with her mother, one of his hands clenching briefly into a fist.

Interesting.

House cast a disdainful look at his Reuben – he'd have to get Wilson to take him out for a real one when he got back. Pushing his chair back he grabbed his stuff and made his way to the cash register. If this was going to be his last conference, he was expensing the living daylights out of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

'Get some sleep,' Lisbon had told Jane before leaving his hotel room. Sure, that would be like telling Rigsby to not snack between meals, or Cho to 'turn that frown upside down', or Van Pelt to quit trying so hard to please everyone. It just didn't work. He knew Lisbon meant well but how could one expect him to sleep when the good Dr. Wagner had decided to toy with him by playing the Red John card? Though the doctor's attempt at writing Jane a letter from the psychopathic killer did lend weight to the merit of Jane's plan, which, judging by the time blinking from the nightstand's clock, he needed to start putting into motion. Pushing himself up off the mattress, he straightened his vest as he cast a cursory glance at the documentary still playing on the TV screen. He grinned when he saw the cheetah had caught its prey.

Fifteen minutes later Jane was at the all-night diner he had found close to where the team had set up headquarters in Palm Springs. Armed with a red diary, a few pens, and what was sure to be the first of many cups of strong coffee, he settled into one of the red vinyl booths furthest from the door. (And with the best view of the parking lot, just in case someone he knew stopped by.) At least this place was the real deal diner-wise with the apron-clad wait staff, the slouchy cook behind the grill and the continuously percolating coffee. Jane took a swallow of coffee and began to write.

It was interesting, really, he thought an hour or so later, the things one could fill a diary with. Hopes. Dreams. Secret wishes and crushes and plans for the future. Or with words like 'confess' and 'killer' interspersed with random equations and ramblings. The latter was quite easy, really, when there was a lot rolling around inside his head . . . and when there was someone he burned to say words such as 'murderer' and 'you did it' to (along with a few others), but couldn't. Not yet, anyway.

Jane warily eyed the steaming cup of coffee he had just thanked the waitress for pouring. He needed it to stay awake and to get Lisbon to go along with his plan without telling her about it. Yet even as he thought about taking another sip his stomach recoiled in protest. Too much too fast, he supposed. But it couldn't be helped and again, there was the plan to consider. Really it was simply an exercise in mind over matter. It wasn't like he hadn't survived worse things than an ulcer.

Grabbing the white ceramic mug, Jane raised it to his lips, pausing to blow the steam off it. He then almost dropped the mug when a large bottle of Tums clattered onto the scratched formica tabletop. Laughingly letting an expletive fly, he set the cup down and managed to swipe off the few coffee droplets that had landed on the diary's pages before they left too noticeable of a stain.

"Way to further solidify the dumb blond stereotype," a somewhat familiar voice said. "And you used to kiss your wife with that mouth?"

Jane looked up at the tall, somewhat scruffy-looking man standing by his table. Piercing blue eyes, wooden cane, and not a hint of an apology for anything he had done or said. Ah, it was the fellow who had tripped him at the airport; and he had obviously remembered Jane.

"Way to further solidify the grumpy old cripple stereotype," Jane replied. "But I'm not dumb. Not unintentionally, anyway," he added with a grin. Jane chose to ignore the accurate past-tense reference to his wife, instead grabbing the bottle of antacid tablets. Liberating two of them, he quickly chewed and swallowed. He wasn't surprised when the man sat down across from him, snatched the diary, and began reading it. Jane's hand was beginning to cramp and a bit of a rest would be nice.

"So doctor," Jane said after a few minutes, "what's your prognosis? Will I live, go insane, or die trying?"

_mhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmh_

He would almost take working in the clinic over this inane conference.

Almost.

Unfolding his frame from the rental car he had been aimlessly driving in for the past hour, House grabbed his cane and pocketed the keys for the red Mustang before making his way to the doors of the 24-hour diner. Now this place looked like it was capable of making a real Reuben. He plopped himself down at the lunch counter, nodding at the cook behind the grill before pulling out the laminated menu resting between the napkin dispenser and the glass bottle of ketchup. When the waitress came over with a pad and a stubby pencil (thankfully, she wasn't cracking a wad of gum – too cliché), he ordered a Reuben, a coffee, and made sure there would be gravy with his fries. The waitress said something about having stiff competition for the coffee, casting a sideways glance at the back of the diner before calling out his order to the cook.

House fiddled with a sugar packet as he scanned the booths lining the far wall. Most of them were empty. One was occupied by a couple of horny teenagers (like there were any other kind), another by a blond-haired man writing steadily in a small red book, pausing only to choke down another mouthful of coffee. Something was familiar about him . . .

Just then the waitress plunked a cup of coffee in front of House and, taking note of where he was looking, said "He's been here for an hour. Hasn't stopped writing or drinking." As if to lend credence to her words, she made her way to the man's table to refill his cup. He thanked her for it with a smile before returning to his writing. The waitress arched an eyebrow as if to say 'See?' as she made her way back to the counter. House said nothing, turning his attention again to the man in the booth. Wait a second – white dress shirt, vest, probably the same ugly brown shoes . . . and quite possibly the beginnings of an ulcer if he kept up with the coffee.. It was mini-Chase from the airport in Sacramento. Well, not 'from the airport', but he had sort of run into House at the airport. Heh.

Waving the waitress over, House inquired as to whether she'd like to give up the bottle of antacid tablets she kept tucked behind the counter or clean up watery vomit, grinning when she wordlessly handed over the industrial-sized bottle of Tums. He made his way to the back booth where mini-Chase sat, warily eying his fresh cup of coffee before he picked it up with a fresh resolve.

Idiot.

House tossed the bottle on the table. "Way to further solidify the dumb blond stereotype,'' he said. "And you used to kiss your wife with that mouth?" Mini-Chase laughingly swore before wiping a few droplets of coffee from the notebook's pages.

Without missing a beat the man replied, "Way to further solidify the grumpy old cripple stereotype." He made no mention of House's reference to his dead wife, his expression faltering for only the briefest of moments before an affable smile settled on his face again.

House tightened his grip on his cane, ducking his head down briefly as the guy added something about not being unintentionally dumb (right) before taking a couple of antacids. As he did, the front cover of the book he had been writing in closed and House saw the cheap gold-colored lettering spelling out 'diary'.

This just got more and more interesting.

Sliding into seat across from mini-Chase, House grabbed the diary and flipped to the first page. Mini-Chase did nothing besides set his pen down and flex his fingers. The guy was either a complete idiot or some sort of idiotic genius. House flipped through a couple of more pages. Or maybe the guy was just insane.

"So doctor," mini-Chase said after a few minutes, "what's the prognosis? Will I live, go insane, or die trying?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"I'm Patrick Jane, by the way," Jane said before his table mate could even really attempt to answer his question. He didn't bother to hold out his hand, knowing it would be a futile gesture with the doctor as he also took a certain delight in bucking social conventions. It was something Jane could appreciate.

The doctor confirmed Jane's observations regarding social behavior, giving not even a hint of a response to either Jane's question or his introduction. Instead he flipped to what Jane knew was the last full page of the diary. He watched as the man's brow furrowed slightly, his eyes seeming to turn a brighter shade of blue as they took in the page's contents. Ah, yes – that was where Jane had been marginally personal in his ramblings. It was also where he had included a line graph charting the probability of the teens in the booth in front of him being grounded by the time they got back home (the girl had ignored a couple of calls on her cell phone). The thought briefly flitted through Jane's mind of how he had told his wife their daughter could date whomever she wished (" . . . _when she is 25, that is . . ."_) after witnessing a boy in her kindergarten class shyly giving her a peck on the cheek. The grin he felt tugging at the corners of his mouth surprised him; he quickly hid it with a swallow of his now-lukewarm coffee. Not that the doctor would have noticed, lost as he was in thought as he rhythmically shook his bottle of pills in his right hand.

The waitress came to the table with the doctor's food (another Reuben, again with fries and gravy) and a fresh pot of coffee just as the doctor closed the diary. He slid it back towards Jane who smoothly palmed it with his left hand before securing it under his forearm. Thanking the waitress as she set a clean mug in front of him and filled it up, Jane found himself hoping the rest of the team was getting a good night's sleep – especially Cho and Rigsby. Unbeknownst to them, they were the security detail for his upcoming meeting with Dr. Wagner.

Turning his attention back to the man seated across from him, Jane noticed he had begun eating his sandwich and had either conveniently or deliberately left his bottle of pills beside his plate. Interesting.

"Those are for your leg, yeah?" Jane asked with a nod of his head. "That and solving puzzles is what keeps you going – gets you out of bed in the morning."

"And you," countered the doctor after he swallowed, "like revealing peoples' secrets, mainly to keep them from discovering any of yours. Not that that's such an unusual thing for people to do." The doctor wiped a smudge of mustard from the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "You also blame yourself for the murders of your wife and daughter," he added, pinning Jane with a pointed look. "Hence your pursuit of Red John, which is why you are here with whatever law enforcement agency it is you now work with, instead of continuing in your formerly lucrative career as a fake psychic."

Jane willed him self to remain calm, to relax his grip on his coffee cup as he maintained eye contact. He knew, he was certain he had not revealed such particulars in the diary; he could not – no, he would not – lash out. And normally it was no longer such a struggle to keep certain . . . desires hidden, but he was extremely tired, feeling slightly ill, and, honestly, was rather unnerved at having a virtual stranger read him so well.

As he dipped his head down under the pretense of an almost-sneeze, Jane realized with a start he was responding to what had just happened in much the same manner as Lisbon would. The defensiveness at being read, the frustration at not keeping one's walls up at all times. Bah, such a thing would never do. Then there was the whole 'pot, kettle, black' thing. Van Pelt would tell him he was reaping what he sowed. Any which way, this honestly was not the first time such an occurrence had happened, nor, if he played his cards right later on (and he would be), would it be the last. Time to regain the upper hand.

Reaching for the bottle of antacids, Jane knocked his cup of coffee onto the doctor's half-eaten sandwich. Amidst his apologies, the doctor's displeasure, and a fistful of napkins Jane swiped the bottle of pills. He slipped them and the diary onto the seat beside him, grinning when the doctor's eyes paused in their search for the pill bottle, once again seeming to brighten as something snapped into place.

"Why," the doctor began, clenching a fistful of napkins in his right hand, "do you think I'm a doctor?"

Jane smiled.

Excellent.

_mhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmh_

It was on the tip of House's tongue to tell mini-Chase he was actually an idiot when the guy introduced himself as Patrick Jane. House thought he should recognize the man's name – and was ready to let things roll around in his head for a bit and sort themselves out – when a stretch of text on the last page of the diary caught his attention. No longer was this Jane quoting a wild mix of song lyrics and philosophers while making pointed claims along the lines of 'you killed her', 'confess', and 'you did it' (all interspersed with, of all things, algebraic equations). For a brief moment (House would bet a month's worth of Vicodin it was a subconscious act) the writer took on a very personal tone. "You took everything I had," Jane's hurried pen strokes read, "everything that mattered. I promise you this – you will pay."

Frowning, House finally let his mind mull over the now-irritating familiarity of the man seated across from him. The feeling of at least knowing about him in some way had been poking at House's mind since he saw the guy's reaction to the sight of the young girl and her mother at the airport in Sacramento. Charismatic man . . . observant to the point he could probably masquerade as a psychic if he so desired . . . had only an overnight bag with him at the airport so was probably traveling on business of some sort . . . visibly affected by the sight of a child with her mother . . . Wilson's wife had a crazy scheme about six years ago to contact her dead mother . . . a red balloon . . . psychic . . .

House absently grabbed his bottle of Vicodin as the pieces started to snap into place, rattling the pills inside to the rhythm of his thoughts.

Wilson's wife. Six years ago she had the insane idea she should try to talk to her dead mother. Went to some charlatan's show. Patrick Jane. The successful 'psychic'. He had made the mistake of taunting a serial killer who showed his displeasure by killing Jane's wife and child. And Wilson's wife wouldn't shut up about the gruesome murders and the effect it had to have had for the man, who then basically dropped out of the public eye (at least on a national scale). It only took House three Wednesday nights of such drivel to quit inviting himself over for supper. No meal was worth listening to that.

And now here was the illustrious Mr. Jane, in a diner, scribbling in a diary and drinking copious amounts of coffee. He seemed to be setting a trap for someone . . . the golf pro. House had overheard snippets of conversations since arriving in Palm Springs about the golf pro who had come home to find his wife murdered, reportedly at the hand of the same serial killer who took the lives of Jane's family – Red John.

House barely acknowledged the waitress as she placed his Reuben in front of him, setting his Vicodin down on the table before he slid the diary toward Jane. The question now was how to prove his hypothesis. Taking a bite out of his sandwich (much better than that crap in Sacramento) House cast a quick sidelong glance at the pill bottle. Jane would ask about it or make some sort of observation – he was sure of it. Which would then allow House to segue way into –

"Those are for your leg, yeah?" Jane said with a nod of his head. "That and solving puzzles is what keeps you going – gets you out of bed in the morning."

Arrogant, _accurate_ little twerp. House finished chewing before he spoke. "And you like revealing peoples' secrets, mainly to keep them from discovering any of yours. Not that that's such an unusual thing for people to do." He grabbed his napkin, wiping what was probably mustard from the corner of his mouth. The smug grin left Jane's face. Good. "You also blame yourself for the murders of your wife and daughter," he added, setting his sandwich down and focusing solely on Jane. "Hence your pursuit of Red John, which is why you are here with whatever law enforcement agency it is you now work with, instead of continuing in your formerly lucrative career as a fake psychic."

The man had a great deal of self-control, House would give him that. His face registered a brief flicker of shock before a stone-like, impassive mask settled into place; his green eyes flashed with grief, anger and then indignation before they, too, were brought back into line. Jane's hands, though, took a little bit longer to relax their grip on the coffee cup. Once they did, though, House almost missed the gleam that came to Jane's eyes after he stifled a sneeze and then reached for the bottle of antacid tablets.

And before House knew it, the remains of his sandwich were in a pool of coffee, Jane was apologizing like, well, an idiot, and . . . damn it. Where were his pills? But that question was eclipsed by a new puzzle piece entering the fray – Jane had referred to him as 'doctor' before introducing himself. He had almost missed it, intent as he had been on discovering the diary's contents.

"Why" House said, clenching a wad of napkins in his right hand, "do you think I'm a doctor?" Jane only smiled widely in response.

Idiot.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Jane smiled when the waitress gave him a disapproving frown as she cleared away the doctor's plate. He smiled while the doctor scowled. And Jane was still smiling as he settled on how to explain that he knew the doctor was, well, a doctor. (_Ever the showman_, as his wife had been fond of reminding him.) Leaning forward in his seat, he rested his forearms on the tabletop, placing his right hand on top of his left.

"Oh, it was a number of little things, really," Jane said, tilting his head briefly to his right. "But it was the Mustang which tipped the scale, if you will."

The doctor kept him from elaborating any further by cutting in with "That's the best you can do?" Disdain tinted the his words, discomfort shadowed his face. "Because based on that," the doctor continued, "I could just as easily be a lawyer, a wealthy businessman, or a highly successful psychic." Jane managed to slide in a 'touché' before the man added, "I could go on, but I know you get my point."

Rather than arguing the doctor simply hadn't let him finish, Jane nodded his head in acquiescence. He was well-acquainted with how the need for a distraction from one's pain often removed any sort of tactfulness. "Well," Jane began, "you're not a lawyer because you always want to find the truth, no matter the cost, and you couldn't drive the car you're presently renting if you were an honest one. You're not a businessman because it requires too much schmoozing – which you despise. And if you were a highly successful psychic, well . . . we wouldn't be having this conversation now, would we?"

"So the doctor part comes in how?"

Eyeing the doctor's white-knuckled fists, Jane briefly pondered how best to answer so as to allow himself to get back to the diary and return the doctor's pills without incurring bodily harm. He had a number of pages to fill before the book would look properly used, and he needed to be the first one to arrive at the team's temporary headquarters for his plan to work. And he wasn't cruel. Not always or to everyone, at least. "It's about the puzzle," Jane finally said, "and what has more puzzles than medicine?"

The doctor didn't say anything, his gaze thoughtful as he studied Jane. Neither man acknowledged the waitress as she set a fresh sandwich and fries on the table for the doctor along with a fresh cup of coffee for Jane.

"Your line of work has puzzles, too," the doctor said when they were once more alone. He picked up a french fry but made no move to eat it. "Could be I'm just a cop working undercover." He dropped the fry back onto the plate before pushing it aside.

"Not likely," Jane countered, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the table before moving the same hand to rest on top of the diary beside him, being careful not to rattle the pill bottle. "Again, you don't like dealing with people. You're smart, yes, but you have a certain aloofness that wouldn't allow you to bond with others, as members of law enforcement often need to do. You think everyone lies, and most everyone is an idiot, and you've never done very well with many of the more . . . visceral things in life. Probably because your father saw that as a sign of weakness and made short work of driving such 'nonsense' out of you. You're an army brat, yeah?" He saw the doctor's jaw clench and his eyes darken.

"Look," Jane hastily added, "we could go back and forth like this all night, and under different circumstances I would welcome the distraction – truly, I would. But," he grasped the pill bottle, looking at the label before setting the vicodin tablets in front of Dr. Gregory House of Princeton, New Jersey, "it is getting rather late, Dr. House, and . . ." He let his voice trail off as House quickly procured a couple of pills and swallowed them.

"You have a murderer to catch," House finished for him.

Jane gave a quick, apologetic nod of his head. Really, he could have continued his conversation with House for much longer, but if Wagner was given too much more time --

"Lay off the coffee," the doctor said, grabbing Jane's attention as he slid out of the booth. "Switch to soda – preferably a cola. A sugar crash or two before the rest of your team shows up will help you look more haggard."

"Cool," Jane said with a smile, tucking the diary and one of the pens into the inside pocket of his coat while House pulled his plate back in front of him. "Thanks." House seemed amused by Jane's thanks, but his half-grin was more likely due to whoever was presently calling him on his cell phone. Jane smirked at the sound of the peppy pop tune, shrugging on his jacket before picking up the bottle of Tums and heading to the front of the diner.

He pocketed a handful of antacid tablets before inquiring about the bill for himself and House. Slapping a handful of bills on the counter along with the antacid bottle, he left with a grin and a wink at the waitress. He glanced back at the teenaged couple on his way out the door. Oh yeah, they were both grounded, judging by the girl's antsiness and frequent glances at her cell phone as the boy patted down his coat pockets with nervous hands.

Jane shoved his hands into his coat pockets as he began to whistle a random tune. He pretended not to hear the waitress as she hollered across the parking lot if he was sure didn't want his change. Reminding himself to keep an eye out for the 7-ll he had spied earlier that day, Jane turned in the direction of the team's headquarters.

_mhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmh_

House barely noticed the waitress as she cleared away his plate, his attention focused on the smirking jerk across the table. How could Jane have figured out he was a doctor? He had tossed the stupid ID tag from the conference almost immediately after receiving it. His team hadn't called for his help on any cases either in the airport or while he was here at the diner. And there was no way Jane could have read the label on the bottle of pills before tucking it out of sight. So how did he –

"Oh, it was a number of little things, really," Jane began just as a painful spasm gripped the remaining muscle tissue in House's right thigh, "but it was the Mustang which tipped the scale, as it were."

"That's the best you can do?" House almost snorted in disbelief. "Because based on that, I could just as easily be a lawyer, a wealthy businessman, or a highly successful psychic." Jane managed a quickly uttered 'touché' before House added, "I could go on, but I know you get my point." He hoped whatever people Jane was working with weren't paying him too tidy of a sum. Though it were serve them right if they were.

Jane nodded his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he said, "Well, you're not a lawyer because you always want to find the truth, no matter the cost, and you couldn't drive the car you're presently renting if you were an honest one. You're not a businessman because it requires too much schmoozing – which you despise. And if you were a highly successful psychic, well . . . we wouldn't be having this conversation now, would we?"

The guy was good, but House wasn't ready to concede just yet, even though Jane still had his pills. There had to be a hole somewhere in the guy's hypothesis. "So the doctor part comes in how?" House asked instead, shutting out Wilson's voice in his head as it attempted to pose the possibility the man seated across from him really was a psychic. Really, Jane was just making a series of lucky guesses.

"It's about the puzzle," Jane said at length, "and what has more puzzles than medicine?"

House wanted to say 'well, duh', but the waitress returned with a fresh sandwich and fries for him and a cup of coffee for Jane. And such a statement would obviously confirm Jane was right. Which he was, but he didn't need to know that. Yet.

So House waited until the waitress was out of ear shot before offering a theory of his own. "Your line of work has puzzles, too, " he said. House picked up a french fry before adding "Could be I'm just a cop working undercover." His stomach roiled in time to the throbbing of his leg. Dropping the fry back on his plate, House pushed it aside.

"Not likely," Jane said, drumming out a quick rhythm with his fingertips on the tabletop before resting the same hand under the table.

_So that's where he hid them,_ House thought, briefly debating diving under the table in order to get his pills and some relief so he could eat his meal.

"Again," Jane said, oblivious to House's schemes, "you don't like dealing with people. You're smart, yes, but you have a certain aloofness that wouldn't allow you to bond with others, as members of law enforcement often need to do. You think everyone lies, and most everyone is an idiot, and you've never done very well with many of the more . . . visceral things in life. Probably because your father saw that as a sign of weakness and made short work of driving such 'nonsense' out of you. You're an army brat, yeah?"

House almost had to physically swallow the desire to grab Jane by the collar and tell him to shut up (amongst other things) and just give him his pills. He wasn't some mark for this guy's one-man show.

Jane obviously had picked up on House's desire to clock him, for he hurriedly added, "Look, we could go back and forth like this all night, and under different circumstances I would welcome the distraction – truly, I would. But," House snatched the pills milliseconds after Jane set the bottle in front of him, "it is getting rather late, Dr. House, and . . ." He let his voice trail off as House dry-swallowed two pills.

"You have a murderer to catch," House finished. Jane gave a quick nod of his head as an idea popped into House's mind. "Lay off the coffee," he said, turning his gaze to Jane as he slid out of the booth. Might as well show the guy he knew a few tricks, too. "Switch to soda – preferably a cola. A sugar crash or two before the rest of your team shows up will help you look more haggard."

"Cool," Jane replied with a bright smile (definitely less mopey than Chase – he'd have to re-think the mini-Chase moniker), tucking the diary and a pen in the inside pocket of his coat. "Thanks."

Just then House felt the beginning vibrations of his cell phone in his inside coat pocket before Hanson's "MMMBop" started to play. Pulling the phone out with a grin, he watched Jane make his way to the front of the diner, the bottle of Tums in hand.

A brief glance at the display screen showed Foreman had drawn the short straw in regards to calling House at such a late hour. Which meant there was an important case. A "get out of the stupid conference for free" case. Excellent.

"What have you got, homey?" House asked. As Foreman filled him in on what was indeed a new case involving (of course) a Very Important Donor to the Hospital, House quickly forgot about his Reuben and Jane. There was another puzzle to solve. So intent was House on the newest case, he didn't even bat an eye when the waitress informed him a couple of minutes later his meal had already been paid for.


	5. Epilogue

**Note: **Another big "Thank you!" to **Ebony10** and **221b Baker Street** for all their help, and to everyone who took the time to read and review this story. I really appreciate it!

**Epilogue**

Teresa Lisbon was not going to be impressed by some stupid paper frog (never mind the fact it was currently tucked into her coat pocket). She knew Cho had made it, just as she had her suspicions from the start that it was him who had told Jane about this case. He probably even booked the flight for Jane. And she hadn't smiled or giggled in delight when the aforementioned frog had hopped (hopped!) at her. No, that had merely been a reflexive, startled grin.

This case was not the first time Jane had gone running off on his own and had failed to let the others in on his plans or his suspicions. Wouldn't be the last either, she surmised as she took a seat by Cho in the waiting area by their departure gate at the Palm Springs International Airport. But such . . . a complete omission was unsual even for Jane as he normally liked an audience; to have someone to 'ooh' and 'ahh' in all the right places.

But then again she mused, as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, this had been a somewhat unusual case. As indirect as it had turned out to be Red John had been involved. Invoked was perhaps more like it . . . but it was a not-welcome reminder of something Lisbon tried not to think about: Patrick Jane would go to whatever lengths he deemed necessary to catch the person who murdered his wife and child.

Lisbon's thoughts were interrupted by the return of Rigsby and Van Pelt with two trays of coffee. (Lisbon could see she would have to keep an eye on those two, or Rigsby at any rate.) She gratefully accepted the tray containing her cup of coffee and Jane's cup of tea. As the others sat back with their own beverages, she scanned the waiting area for Jane. He had been here only a moment ago, working on one of his sudoku puzzles – _oh, hello_.

In the seating area for the departure gate for a flight going to Princeton, New Jersey, was Jane. He was sitting beside a tall, scruffy-looking man with greying hair who seemed to barely tolerate Jane while also being amused by him. (Lisbon wagered she wore the same expression at least 95% of the time around the consultant.) She watched as Jane pulled a red book out of the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to the man, who took it somewhat dubiously. Jane said something with a smile and a tilt of his head. The other man turned the book over in his hands a few times, seeming to laugh in agreement before looking back over at Jane. They exchanged a few more words before the boarding call was made for Princeton and the man stood up, resting his right hand on a cane Lisbon hadn't noticed before. He grabbed his bag, stuffing the book from Jane into it before swivelling around and with a curious sort of grace made his way to the boarding station.

Lisbon didn't even try to hide the fact she had been observing Jane as he made his way towards her and the team, choosing to maintain eye contact with him as she took a sip of her coffee.

"Who was your friend?" she asked Jane once he had sat down across from her. She handed him his tea.

Jane took the lid off the cup and sniffed it before taking a sip. He grimaced, swallowing the (apparently) foul liquid.

"Ah," Jane said, dropping the cup into the bin to his left, "just the smartest man in the room." He grinned brightly as Lisbon barely suppresed a disbelieving (and most unladylike) snort, which turned into a full laugh as Jane added, "In New Jersey."


End file.
